On a windy fall morning, Ivo took Snow and Rose foraging for mushrooms growing wild. He knew which ones were good to eat and which were full of poison, and he taught the girls to tell the difference. In dark nooks and the shade of fallen trees, they found two different kinds to fill up their baskets: a cream-yellow kind that looked almost like a blossom, and a short, plump kind that Ivo called a Penny Bun. Now that they could find him, they went to Ivo’s tree to look for him. Now that they knew him, if too many days passed, they started to miss him.
Their next stop was an orchard of crab apple trees, where the wild October air rustled the leaves and made the fruit sway in heavy red bunches. The girls filled their baskets and helped Ivo finish filling his own cloth sack.
Ivo tossed a tiny apple into his mouth, crunching it. “They’ll be expecting me back home before the afternoon’s all the way gone.” He slung the bag of apples over his shoulder with his other foraged bundles.
The girls frowned.
“They’re worriers, Papa and Mum,” Ivo said, shrugging. “If they had their way, I’d only ever be at the farm or at home. They don’t like me to go too far by myself.”
“But you’re not by yourself,” Rose said.
“You know what I mean.” Ivo waved goodbye, and the sisters gathered their baskets. They waved back, and Ivo turned homeward.
Rose and Snow were about to start home themselves, when they heard a rustling from behind the trees. A big brown hare, much larger than the bunnies they’d seen in summer, came darting out of the undergrowth and dashed away. The wind blew through the trees, making a hushing sound in the dry leaves, and the woods around them shivered.
Then came a great crash, shaking the leaves like a sudden hurricane. Snow and Rose heard the sound of thrashing wings and breaking branches, and then a high, whining shriek.
The girls followed the sound to the other side of the apple trees. There, the huge blackbird they’d seen in early summer was high up in a tall oak tree, holding something in its claws. Rose knew it was the same bird, because she caught a flash of the white mark on its chest.
“Maybe that bird was trying to get you,” said Snow, her eyes wide.
Rose looked up, trying to catch a glimpse of the battle. “It looks like a person, sort of. But it’s too small.” She gasped. “Is it a baby?”
“I think it has a beard!” Snow said, peering up.
“Whoever he is,” Rose said, “the bird is going to shake him to death.” As the little someone dangled overhead, he noticed the girls below.
“Hellllllllllllllllpppp!” he howled, flailing. The bird thrashed, and his little body flew, a wisp of cream-colored beard trailing through the air.
The girls looked at each other, hoping the other had an idea. Now they could barely hear the Little Man grumbling above the clamor. They only made out a hiss: “You deserve worse, you fool.”
“What?” Snow called.
“Lovely girls, don’t just stand there!” he howled down at them. The bird squawked loudly then, dangling him from the back of his little brown coat. The blackbird seemed to eye the sisters as he swung the Little Man, thudding, into the tree trunk.
“It’s not polite to just”—he hit the tree with a violent thunk—“go on staring!”
Rose was too wary of the bird to climb the tree, but she had an idea. She tossed a handful of apples into the air, and the enormous bird opened its beak to snap them up, freeing the Little Man.
“Oh, clever girl!” he cried. But the instant the Little Man caught himself on a branch, the bird dove and snatched him in its claws. The bird perched, holding its captive dangling over the girls’ heads.
Snow jumped into the air, grabbing hold of the Little Man’s leg.
“I shall be ripped to shreds,” he sobbed.
Rose grabbed onto the other tiny leg, and now they were in a tug-of-war with the blackbird.
“I’m being rescued by waifs,” the Little Man shrieked, his beard billowing up in a huff.
“It’s not very polite to insult your rescuers!” Rose shouted.
“They might let go, you ungrateful—” Snow said, giving his leg a fierce tug.
At this last tug, there was ripping sound as the Little Man’s coat finally gave way, leaving a scrap of wool in the bird’s claws.
The Little Man landed in a bush, and the bird flew furiously up and out of sight. The scrap of wool coat fluttered to the ground.
The girls ran to the small bearded heap.
“Who are you?” Rose asked.
“What are you?” Snow interrupted.
He pulled himself up to his full height, reaching just under Snow’s nose. “That is not a very polite question to ask someone about himself, girl, so I will answer the other.” He combed the leaves from his wispy cream-colored beard, which glinted in the light with a faint cast of gold.
“I have been called many names over many years,” he said, smoothing his beard. He was suddenly possessed of a strange calm. The girls exchanged glances, confused about how quickly he seemed to have recovered from his terror.
The Little Man examined the tear in his coat and continued. “Sometimes I’m the Dwarf and sometimes I’m the Tomten….” He paused and produced, seemingly from nowhere, a spool of thread.
“Or sometimes the Brownie or Boggart or Gnome,” he said, spinning once around. When he stopped, his clothes were mended and tidy again.
“And to some very rude people, I’ve been the Goblin.” He looked at the girls, and his eyes flashed for an instant in the bright daytime forest, the way a cat’s eyes sometimes do in the dark.
“But these are just names,” he said.
He crouched and began sifting through a pile of leaves. After a moment, he retrieved a leather hat the color of deerskin. He placed it on his head and straightened himself. “I know every bramble and branch of this forest. I know every creature, every bee and mouse and fox. I know when arrows fall, and I know what the trees saw. I know things nobody knows.” He faced the girls, and his eyes flashed again. “Many names have I, child. But none have guessed what I am.”
Rose felt the hairs on the back of her neck prickle.
“And what, pray tell, are your names?” he asked, setting his chin on his hand.
Snow looked at Rose, and they were both silent for a moment. When they answered, reluctantly, his eyes almost seemed to register recognition.
The Little Man smiled, saying, “Snow and Rose, such civilized girls. Now I must thank you properly.” He held his hands out at his sides as if offering something. “You may have an answer or a gift.”
“Gift!” Snow cried out immediately, as if he’d offered a plate of something delicious and she was terribly hungry.
“Wait,” Rose said. “What kind of an answer? To what kind of a question?”
“Well, the answer doesn’t matter, because she’s already chosen,” the Little Man said.
“But we didn’t know the rules,” Rose said. She sensed something held just out of reach, like a catch at her back that wouldn’t let her step forward. She had lost a chance to ask a question everyone around them had long since stopped asking.
“No finer thing than a gift, child!” the Little Man said. Something sharp in his voice made Rose go silent. He smiled at Snow. His smile curled up into his cheeks. “So! You must have your present, then. Close your eyes and hold out your right hand.”
Snow shut her eyes tight, holding out her hand.
Rose kept her eyes open a sliver. She wasn’t going to just stand there, trusting and blind, holding out her hands to someone who spoke in riddles and didn’t have a name. Through the half-drawn curtains of her eyelids, Rose saw the Little Man gather leaves in his hands, then turn his back. Then she heard a sound like someone rummaging through pockets that never ended. His turned back made her bold, and she opened her eyes.
“Everywhere am I,” the Little Man’s voice scolded.
This startled Rose so much that she squeezed her eyes shut, and she didn’t open them again until she felt something cool and smooth in her hand. Snow squealed beside her, and Rose saw that each of them held in their hands a beautiful miniature cake. The cakes were thickly frosted in pale violet icing and sat on dishes made of pressed sugar. The tops were studded with real violets, daintier and more lovely than anything the cooks had ever made for them.
“How did you make those?” Rose asked, her eyebrows knitted together.
“Oh, but that is my secret,” the Little Man said.
“But you can’t make something out of nothing,” Rose pressed. Her eyes searched his face, his thin little hands.
“Again, I thank you,” the Little Man said, removing his hat with a nod. “And now I must be gone.”
Before Rose could stop her, Snow had bitten into her cake. Now she stood with a full mouth, looking around. “Where did he go?” Snow mumbled. Rose shook her head, baffled. She dropped her cake on the ground before Snow could ask for it.
Snow’s stomach made a gurgling sound, and she looked at Rose like she might be sick. Snow coughed something into her hand, then uncurled her fingers, revealing not a sugared violet petal but a small brown leaf.
Rose looked around them but found nothing. The Little Man had vanished.
